#Task::Jenkins

[futurefind]

" whatever you did, it worked. " from cyrillo for sa!

PROMPTS FROM MY OLD FANFICTIONS LOL / Accepting // @tvrningout

It almost feels like her heart has barely settled; in other ways it feels, like it often does, like she's never been more alive. Still, there's always a sense of satisfaction after a job done, especially combat—

Still, she straightens, resisting the urge to preen. It's a shallow praise, sure, but from a man like Cyrillo? That's how she knows she's done a damned good job.

Really, it's a good thing she's such a stick in the mud, or else she'd have a hard time keeping a smile off her face (though she's none the wiser to how some of the tension smooths off of it, or how her gaze brightens to attention).

"Ah, well," Sasume shrugs her right and averts her gaze, still slit and dark gold, running the same hand through the back of her hair— ignoring the faint pressure-pain, muted by Third, spreading like cobwebs across her back as she does. "Between some ice walls and familiars, most crowds are no real trouble by myself, whether it's a den of monsters or robbers." Or both, or gods-know-what else.

She shifts her weight in her boots, wondering if it'd be too forward to ask if he's got any more work that could use her, already. Probably best not to push her luck.

Whatever. She's heard the next town's over's been in a bit of a tizzy, and after she gotten back to her inn and replaced ice for gauze and stitches she can head back out. It'll probably be close to— if not actually— done healing by the time she gets there...

"Well. Pleasure doing business with you, as always," her tone is almost dismissive, almost snarking, but even more than usual she means every word.

[trashfr0g]

Have any headcanons about the Tourney team boys?

Herkie.

Aziz.

Ben.

Chad.

Jay.

Carlos.

Failed Tourney Team Member:

Bash.

I love talking about the lesser known characters.

YES I DO THANK YOU FOR ASKING I had a mini phase where I really wanted to see more of the tourney squad interactions - I even drew some comics!

Granted these are a BIT outdated (I have different number HCS for the boys too since I thought Carlos being 101 for the dalmatians was too cute!)

From left to right they're Herkie, Aziz, Jay, Chad, Ben, Taylor (son of Tarzan) on the floor, and Carlos waaaaay in the corner lol.

Now to get to the real meat! I'll keep it under the cut for dash clutter lol

First thangs first! The guy who made it into the pic despite not having speaking lines or book presence.

Taylor

- Son of Tarzan and Jane Porter, like I mentioned before, but he always introduces himself as the son of Jane (and grandson of Archimedes Q. Porter) because he genuinely believes that she's the famous parent. She's the one with a degree and book and college presentations after all! He gets seriously confused when people have no idea who he's talking about and laughs when they recognize Tarzan's name over hers. No matter how many times people tell him Tarzan's his actual famous parent he thinks it's a joke.

- He speaks the animal language, like his father. It gets him a few Disney Princess jokes from the rest of his teammates but it's all lighthearted! He's also really good at mimicking sounds like Tarzan. If Coach Jenkins ever loses his whistle he just has Taylor mimic the sound lol

- because he usually talks to animals he never realized that Dude started speaking English LMAO

- he has a sister named Janice who is EXTREMELY tech savvy and is basically the 'you don't UNDERSTAND ME' teen archetype who butts heads with her environmentalist hippie family. They both have 'K' as their middle name initial, Taylor's is for Kerchak and Janice's is for Kala.

- he won't put on a shirt unless absolutely necessary. He hates clothes in general but he keeps his pants on for everyone else's sake. His jersey number is 24 in reference to the original 24 books in Tarzan's series!

Herkie

- son of Hercules and Megara, of course. He's got the superstrength of his dad and the weak ankles of his mother 💔 his real name is Herakles, because that's less personally offensive to me and the nickname still works!

- he's not as witty as Megara but he has her sass in SPIRIT. He can pull a face and pose that conveys sarcasm better than any wisecrack could and it makes people remark that he's a lot like her, even though he doesn't have the vocab to back it up

- Phil is banned from Auradon Prep because of him. He would keep showing up at Herkie's games to heckle and ended up hurting a lot of fragile teen boy egos.

- he's got his own Pegasus named Peggy-Sue. Yes it's horrific, yes I think it's too descendants-core for me to change my mind about it. He and Aziz like to compete in flying races, horse vs carpet, and have exactly zero concepts of 'fear of heights' or 'motion sickness' between them.

- he and the rest of the Olympians figured out that Hades was Mal's father before she even knew he was her father. They just thought it was common knowledge, her outbursts and fake personas were too Hades-like for them NOT to connect the dots. Because of this personal villain connection he was one of the AKs that took a little longer to warm up to the VKs, but nobody else could figure out where his attitude was coming from lol

- his jersey number is 12, for the 12 Olympian gods and for the original Herakles' 12 tasks

Aziz

- son of JALADDIN *Lego spin* and one of the most easygoing guys on the team

- in my heart of hearts Jay ends up getting adopted by Jasmine and Aladdin so Aziz ends up as his adoptive brother

- Jordan is his absolute bestie and their ringtones for each other are Friend Like Me

- he LOVESSSSS stargazing! He's part of the astronomy club at AP but his favorite way to look at stars is to drag Carpet up as high as it'll go at night and just lay back in it. Herkie, as the only one with a height tolerance like his, likes to join him sometimes to see Hercules's constellation up close!

- he is EXTREMELY organized but not in, like, a purposeful way. Aladdin and Abu like to play little pranks on him and 'steal' his things without telling him (just to not lose their street rat edge) so he'd never know if he genuinely lost or forgot something or if his dad and monkey were messing with him. He now keeps a really detailed mental list of his stuff so if something's gone he knows they were behind it. This also meant that when Jay showed up at AP he was the first to notice that someone was snatching their things lol

- his jersey number is 40, for the 40 thieves

Tyrone

- son of Terpsichore from Hercules, the muse of dance! Like his mother and aunts he can travel through artwork, but usually stays away from it cuz he doesn't like the feeling of switching art styles lol

- he and Herkie are familiar with each other from growing up on Olympus together and also being the only dudes on the team to wear togas. It's STILL manly 💪😤

- in a meta sense, he's the one responsible for all the spontaneous dance numbers in Auradon working so well. His mom's the muse of dance so he always has the guys ready for when Ben wants to declare his love to random villain girls in song form after games

Li

- son of Chef Louis, and, since I hc him as being Best Bro from the School of Secrets web series, also Smee's great nephew! His mother is Smee's niece and she and Louis bonded over their sea-adjacent backgrounds. Mermaids stress them both out.

- He's always complaining that there's not enough Seafood in the cafeteria but Mrs. Potts won't hear it

- despite his parents' iffiness over sea creatures, he's good friends with Akio!

Akio

- son of Aquata, Ariel's nephew.

- too many of his cousins went to seaside academy so he decided to branch out! He always gets extra rough with training when he knows they're about to go up against the Mermen.

Emir

- son of Amal, Aladdin's ex-best friend from the Aladdin cartoon.

- After traveling the world on his journey of redemption, Amal settled near Auradon, so Emir has never been to Agrabah, much like Jay. He uses this as a point to relate to him when Jay admits knowing that it's where he's from, nationally, but not feeling particularly connected to it due to growing up on the Isle

- Emir and Aziz knew absolutely nothing about Aladdin and Amal's past but still ended up really close. It was due to their sons' closeness that Amal and Aladdin eventually discovered the connection and rekindled their friendship :)

William

- grandson of Wilhelmina Packard from Atlantis

- the other guys on the team try to bond with him but every second when he's off the field or out of class he's chatting loudly on the phone with his out-of-auradon buddies

- despite this, he's a really great team player and is super reliable! He does join their hangouts from time to time but is usually on the phone in the background yapping away (like his grandma lol)

Other Jersey number HCS

Jay - 03, for three genie wishes

Ben - 21, for the age his father was when the beast curse was lifted (/how old he would've been when the curse was sealed if Belle never showed up lol)

Chad - 00, midnight in military time but doubles as a laugh about his loserness

And that's all I got! The main guys are pretty fleshed out characters so I don't think they need my support haha. Thanks for the ask! This was really fun to do :D

[jilyawards]

Miss Evans and the impossible task (of finding a husband) by @annasghosts

Spitting Image by @charmsandtealeaves

The Queen of the Quills - Jily Edition by @elliemarchetti

Will of the Wilde by @eurhythmix

it's brighter now by @gigglesandfreckles-hp

earth after rain by @juniperpyre

in losing grip by @keep--driving

the road to reunification is not so smooth by @littlefoldedpaperstars

you know what all my faces mean by macsdennis

She's the man! by muntjacsinheadlights

guilty as sin by ohevans

Quest for Camelot by @petalsthefish

The Loyal Companion: A Tale of Bad Dates and Good Whiskey by @sophie-hatter-jenkins

In Ten Years by @testingforgravity

Everyone but You by @theesteemedladydebourgh

I Just Can't Stay (Away) by @theresthesnitch

A House Is Not A Home (But He Can Build Her One) by @wearingaberetinparis

And You Heard About Me (Ooh, We’ve Got Some Big Enemies!) by wearingaberetinparis

...Are You Ready For It (Baby, Let the Games Begin) by wearingaberetinparis

Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton by wearingaberetinparis

Till Death Do Us Part (Let It Be Quick) by wearingaberetinparis

[joyseuphoria]

March @jilymicrofics prompt list answers

First off, A HUGE HUGE HUGEEE THANK you to the people who curated this list! This was the MOST fun I’ve had in the entire year! Thank you for making our days brighter 😘😘

Evolution by sophie-hatter-jenkins

The Chaperone by annabtg

Rage Against The Dying Of The Light by tedwardremus

A Light In The Shadows by livelaughlovetoread

Homeward Bound by athenasparrow

Between the Desire and the Spasm by uncertainwallflower

Of Figs and Fib Trees by merlinsbbeard

once upon a dream by arianatwycross

in the latter days by kay-elle-cee

Wordless by siriuslychessi

Getaway Cabin by tinyluminaryzombie

The Apple Cake Debacle by chiechie97

All The Lonely People (Where Do They All Come From?) by nodirectionhome-ao3

Head Over Handlebars For You by practicecourts

Miss Evans and the impossible task (of finding a husband) by annasghosts

The Magician and the Meatball by celestemagnoliathewriter

Dead To Me by jamesunderwater

Their Halcyon Days by chierafied

Shout Out To My Ex by wearingaberetinparis

Fearlessly Red by petals2fish

Hiking Detour by nena-96

First betrayal by neverenoughmarauders

Trust (Unconditional) by emmathecasualauthor

the thesis of her prayers by giggles-and-freckles

Echoes of Tuning Hearts by eastwindmlk

Juvenescence by abihastastybeans

It's the Rising by @itstherisingdaylight

Even The Sun Sets In Paradise by @joyseuphoria (me)

Spitting Image by charmsandtealeaves

Chronicles of a Sixth-Year Friendship by sunshinemarauder

YOU'VE WON A PRIZE!!! click HERE 2 claim by littlefoldedpapers

[elmknight]

Valerie Mochizuki

Age: 23 Date of Birth: October 12, 2053 Hair Color: Purple/Pink mix Eye Color: Mixture of pink, blue, purple. Like nebula color Affiliation: Arasaka (formerly) Occupation: Merc

Biography:

Born in Tokyo, Japan and was raised in Charter Hill, Night City in a corporate family. Her mother is French, her father Japanese. Both met and worked for Arasaka and were transferred to the new headquarters in Night City.

Valerie attended Arasaka Academy and was top of her class thus securing a future spot in Arasaka once she graduates. Her parents were proud that their daughter followed in their footsteps.

During her time as a corpo, she met and became fast friends with Jackie Welles. Valerie looked up to Jackie and considered him the older brother she always wanted. Mama Welles immediately adopted her and she would spend many nights after work at the Welles for dinner.

However, those night visits became permanent when the Frankfurt leak hit and Jenkins not only had members of the ESC assassinated, but tasked her to kill Abernathy, leading to the end of her corporate life. Though Jackie called it a blessing in disguise. Claiming V finally reclaimed her soul and her life back.

Valerie's parents disowned her and transferred back to Arasaka's headquarters in Japan. Leaving V to "rot in this hellhole called Night City" as they told her before departing.

Now V works as a merc, using her netrunning skills to complete gigs and make some eddies.

[manias-wordcount]

Um, is playing with howls hair ok?

When You Don't Have to Think (Howl Jenkins Pendragon x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗶 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝘂𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗼 𝗶 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗵𝗲 :)

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

You used to think the castle was such a wild and untamed thing. You used to think Wizard Howl was a terrifying and ruthless man. You used to think the world was a dark and cruel place. You used to think a lot of things.

  You still do think though. You still let your thoughts wander. You let your imagination roam free. Off its leash and ready to get the two of you in more trouble than what it’s worth. But you can’t help it. You grew up on newspapers and whispers. Shelters and rumors. Militarization and fears. Your friends would tell you about one thing. One thing so scary and so frightening, you would rush home and tell your parents about the awful, dreadful news you just heard. There might have been tears. There might have been shallow breaths. They might have been shadows of the worst beasts, lurking just out of your sight as you recant what you heard to your parents. And oftentimes, they would tell you not to worry. That you’ll be fine. That you’ll be safe. But they wouldn’t tell you that your fears are unfounded. They wouldn’t tell you that your worries couldn’t come true.

  You used to think a lot of things. And you still think too. But now…

  “You’re falling asleep, my love. Are you sure you don’t want to lay down properly?”

  …you can afford the moments where not a single thought crosses your mind. Not a single one.

  “Mmm,” You let out a hum at Howl's question, but you opt not to answer it just quite yet. Your tongue has grown clumsy in your sleepy mood. Your fingers have grown quite busy with the task at hand. And your mind moves just a little slowly at his words- just barely registering the individual sounds in favor of listening to the heavenly voice that accompanies them. You didn’t realize it then, but a small smile slips on your face. A happy one. A content one. A smile that causes the kind look on Howl’s face to grow even more pleased as he looks up at you with beautiful, bright blue eyes. You smile back once more. Just a little wider. Just a little more teeth. A sight worth falling in love with. One he did many, many moons ago. “Mmm…”

  You let out a yawn.

  How many times have you yawned in the last minute? How many, you wonder. You can’t think of the answer. You can’t think of a lot of things. But you’re okay with that. You’re okay with Howl. And Howl is more than okay with you.

  Though at your yawn, he let out a bit of a dramatic sigh. A soft sigh that brushes passes through pretty lips. A soft sigh that brushes against your own skin. But you know deep down in your heart, he’s not as exasperated as he pretends to be. And how could he be in a moment such as this one? For he’s the one who pulled you on top of him as laid down on a couch in his private study. He’s the one who wrapped his arms around your waist and held you tight when you asked if he wanted you to move. And he’s the one who asked if you could tangle your fingers in his hair. Twirling shapes from long strands as the two share little more than a few words between the hours shared.

The moments when you realize you don’t have to think anymore. 

  At least for a little while.

  But now the sunlight that streams in from the semi-closed blinds no longer belongs to the mid-afternoon sun. No, this is the light of a sun that paints the room orange and bathes the two of you in a bright and warm-colored glow. It twists and turns and flutters away with every single creaky step the castle takes forward. But no matter what, it never leaves you. Not until it’s forced. So for now, it does everything in its power to stay. It does everything in its power for you.

It swaddles you in its comforting grasp. It’s calling your name- lulling you to sleep with every second that passes. And it fights Howl for the privilege of being the one that gets to kiss you goodnight. But you all know who’s going to win. You don’t even have to think to get this answer. You know you just know. 

  But your desire to keep playing with his hair is strong. Almost as strong as his adoring gaze. Almost as strong as arms around your waist. Almost as strong as his love for you. But you still find the strength inside you to keep your eyes open as you bring your pointer finger to his bangs and let it wrap around. And maybe your eyes start to droop as your hands cup up to cup his face in the gentlest of grips. At this point, it’s fair to say that it’s getting harder and harder to recover from your every blink. But you fight for the chance to tangle your fingers into his silky and let the strands fall from your hand one more time. And then one more time after that.

  Was that another yawn? Hmm, it was. Your eyes are feeling heavier than usual, aren’t they? You suppose it wouldn’t hurt to close your eyes and rest your head on his chest for a couple of seconds, right? You suppose you would think something like that. If only you could think in this moment. If only you could think.

  But isn’t it strange? Because you used to think a lot of things. You used to think the castle was such a wild and untamed thing. You used to think Wizard Howl was a terrifying and ruthless man. You used to think the world was a dark and cruel place. You used to think a lot of things. And sometimes, you still do think. You still think of all your fears. Of all the rumors. Of all the whispers. And you think of so much more.

  But that’s why you long for these moments. That’s why you live for these moments. The moments where you can just exist. The moments where you can just smile. The moments where you can just sleep. 

  The moments he gives you. The moments when you realize you don’t have to think anymore. 

  “Rest your eyes, my dear. I’ll be here when you wake.”

  At least, for a little while. A little, little while. 

[weclassybouquetfun]

When I'm in a Lewis Pullman fan competition and Danny Ramirez is my opponent.

This is really a THUNDERBOLTS* spoilers filled post, with time out to celebrate the friendship of TOP GUN: MAVERICK costars and MCU newbies Lewis Pullman and Danny Ramirez (FALCON & WINTER SOLDIER and CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD).

Now on to THUNDERBOLTS*. Warning: SPOILERS ALL UP IN YOUR FACE!

-I don't know the reason why Steven Yeun dropped out of the role of Bob / Sentry / The Void, but this was a great opportunity for Lewis Pullman who I have been a fan of since BAD TIMES AT THE EL ROYALE.

He was not in the Amazon with her mom when she was researching spiders right before she died.

Funny enough, the BAD TIMES AT THE EL ROYALE director wanted Tom Holland (who had his own Bob-esque fcuk as bob in THE CROWDED ROOM) for the role that went to Pullman. Second best is good enough!

Lewis with Sentry co-creator, Paul Jenkins.

-I avoid trailers and try my hardest to avoid spoilers, but as I am terminally online I knew that a character dies very early in the film.

What a relief it was only Olga Kurylenko's Taskmaster!

And as the saying, "There's a lid for every pot" is a truism, there were fans of the character that were angry as they were misled in the trailers.

Mate, you were not there.

But her death works for me because at that moment each one was there with a kill order. They are all skilled mercenaries so why wouldn't they complete their - no pun intended - task? It's unrealistic to not lose one of them. And while yeah, it was quick and dirty, at least Yelena honoured her and was defended her. It's really more respect she got in BLACK WIDOW.

-I wasn't sure about the lineup because, outside of Yelena, John Walker didn't wow me in FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER, Ghost was a non-entity to me in ANT-MAN AND THE WASP, didn't care about Taskmaster and Red Guardian is alright; but they were all utilized well and using these disgraced characters to highlight shame and depression and trauma was a good way to give them a redemptive arc.

-I'm glad I don't watch trailers until after I have seen a film because the trailer spoiled Bucky's Terminator / Ethan Hunt motorcycle moment. I was so happy for the disposal of politician Bucky

to badassery Bucky.

I initially thought Bucky was only being used because they needed a big established character in the film, but his inclusion makes so much sense in that Bucky is still dealing with his trauma of being brainwashed; he's just not ready confront that again.

So many hairstyles - almost all stringy and greasy looking.

What l Liked: The fake out of Geraldine Viswanathan's Mel trying to help Bucky. That duplicitous so-and-so. Just like the contessa!

What I Didn't Like: The Contessa. A little bit of that character goes far. Julia Louis-Dreyfus is still acting like she's on a sitcom.

What I Liked: Yelena being the heart of the film; just as in Black Widow. Her vulnerability has always been a part of her, not just something they drag out as needed. And even in her darkness she still had the desire to uplift and save Bob.

Who people are shipping now. I mean, I do get it. But, nah.

Yelena co-creators Devin Grayson and J.G Jones at the premiere with writer/inker Jimmy Palmiotti.

The people have spoken.

What I love about Grayson is that fan outrage follows them wherever they lands. Grayson has made statements in the past about Yelena being ace or aro-ace, which some people took as canon, but Grayson later clarified it's not canon; just their own headcanon; which then people got angry about because they felt Grayson was backing down due to fanboys.

As someone who watched the eventual DC Comics banishment of Grayson after a series of things that made fans meltdown, I say to Marvel fans...

-What I Didn't Like - Having "The Fantastic Four Theme" as one of the music credits spoiled the post-credit scene.

-What I Liked: Teamwork! Every joining in to save Bob from The Void smacked of "IT" where the kids join in to defeat Pennywise the Clown. But the film/tv version, not the book orgy version. Although, I would not have been made at them using that tactic to defeat The Void.

And great that they show that - to borrow a phrase from another character's story, "With great power comes great responsibility." Not just anyone needs to have power and Bob definitely did not need power because he was so easy to corrupt due to his hurt. I suspect he will eventually learn how to wield it in a way where he can keep The Void at bay.

Overall - fun; but definitely felt its three hours heading into the third act.

-Next up: AVENGERS DOOMSDAY!

Winston Duke, RDJ, Paul Rudd, Channing Tatum, Simu Liu, Chris Hemsworth, Anthony Mackie.

Hemsworth, Tatum, Liu, Rudd, RDJ, Ebon Moss-Bachrach (with a Flat Stanley of Pedro Pascal), Vanessa Kirby, Duke and Mackie.

[hyacinthandmoss]

Sunshine After a Storm

Summary: Dean has been away on a hunt for over a month. Despite putting on a strong front for Dean, you've been grappling with persistent grief stemming from the emotionally demanding nature of your work as a nurse and the suffocating anxiety that Dean might not return to you alive. When Dean notices, he wholeheartedly dedicates himself to reassuring you that being vulnerable is perfectly acceptable and tenderly encourages you to lean on him for support and share the emotional burden.

“My sweet, beautiful, sensitive girl,” Dean whispered, the words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing the storm inside you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size F Reader; Dean & Reader are engaged. No physical description of the reader, but I envision fat women when I write. 

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, anxiety.

Word Count: 3,807

A/N: Yeah, so if it wasn't obvious, I'm rewatching Supernatural! Admittedly, this piece is self-indulgent, much like most of my writing. I wrote it over the weekend to help me cope with the emotional demands of my new job (I'm not in the healthcare field). I share these writings, hoping they solace others as we envision our comfort characters providing what our hearts and souls yearn for. 

Each day blurred into the next, filled with the routines of caring for residents who looked to you for comfort and support, yet you often felt like an island in the sea of their struggles. At the senior assisted living facility, you were the steady hand, the kind smile, and the soft voice that reassured them through their fears and anxieties. But even the strongest of foundations can begin to crumble under the weight of fatigue and isolation. The numbness from years of caring for others was starting to give way to a torrent of feeling—everything you had kept at bay for so long was threatening to overwhelm you.

The fluorescent lights of the nursing station buzzed around you like a swarm of relentless bees, each patient's story echoing in your mind. You recalled Ms. Loveday, who had once played the piano beautifully, now silent in her final days. Or Mr. Jenkins, whose laughter had filled the room, now a faint memory cloaked in the sterile antiseptic scent. A soft beep echoed from the telemetry monitor, snapping you back to reality. You forced yourself to focus on the task — reviewing charts, administering medication, and comforting the residents you adored.

After your shift ended, you sat in the break room zoning out, staring blankly into your untouched coffee, the steam curling up and dissipating into the air like the souls you had held onto, if only for a little while. You couldn't shake the feeling that your days were also numbered, that someday, you would hold Dean’s hand for the last time and never quite recover from it.

"What are you doing after this shift?" Your colleague asked cheerfully, snapping you back to reality. 

"Just... going home, I suppose," you replied, your smile a facade that failed to reach your eyes. Returning to your own life, free from the weight of others' suffering, seemed like a distant dream. 

"Take care of yourself, okay? You know you can't help everyone. You're not a superhero." 

You nodded, but the words stung. You wanted to be the invincible partner that Dean deserved, someone who didn't crumble under the weight of sorrow. Yet here you were, feeling fragile and frayed like the worn-out scrubs you wore, each thread a reminder of your emotional turmoil.

The old rigid door creaked as you entered the bunker, filled with the comforting remnants of Dean’s presence: his jackets tossed over chairs, half-opened magazines stacked on the table, and the faint smell of gun oil lingering in the air. Despite the chaos of the Winchester’s hunting life, there was a warm stability in the bunker, one you clung to now more than ever.

After a quick shower, you washed away the remnants of your long shift—the scent of antiseptics and the occasional, overwhelming smell of anxiety vanishing down the drain.

Just as you settled onto the soft mattress, you reached for your phone, and your heart gushed at the thought of Dean. You flipped through the gallery, each photo a whisper of your shared moments. His bright and infectious smile glowed up at you from the screen, reminding you of carefree days spent together—adventurous getaways, lazy Sunday mornings, and spontaneous late-night drives. You held onto the phone tightly, feeling the phantom warmth of his presence.

Beside you, Dean's flannel shirt rested on the bed. You buried your face in the fabric, inhaling deeply, as his scent—woodsy and familiar—wrapped around you like a warm embrace. It was comforting, a piece of him that bridged the miles between, yet it heightened the pang of longing deep within you.

Just as you felt your eyelids grow heavy, your phone buzzed in your hand. The vibration startled you, causing your heart to race. You glanced at the screen, and your breath caught in your throat. The name that lit up the display sent a flood of warmth through your chest: "Dean."

It was surreal. Could he feel your longing, hear your silent prayers for connection? You answered with a quick swipe, the screen illuminating your face. You panicked momentarily and hoped he wouldn't sense something was wrong. 

You uttered a breathless, "Hello?" 

"Hey, babe," Dean's voice greeted you, full of warmth and a hint of fatigue.

"Hey," you replied, your voice wavering slightly. "How's the hunt?" 

“Same ol’, same ol’. Just another day in the family business.” He chuckled. "How's the old folks' home? Still wrangling all the cranky grandpas?"

You took a deep breath. You were torn. You wanted to share your burdens, but how could you do that without dragging him down?

 "It has been busy. You know how it is."

"Something's off. Tell me what's wrong," Dean asked as he picked up on the subtle unease in your tone.

The genuine concern in his voice made your heart swell, yet it hurt to think of burdening him with your struggles. You hesitated, grappling with the urge to be strong. You and Dean had always been each other's anchors, but now you worried you might tip the boat over.

"I'm fine, babe. I'm just sleep-deprived. Been taking extra shifts to keep busy, is all," you finally said, forcing an upbeat tone you didn't quite feel. "Just know I miss you."

"I miss you too, baby. We're going to get ready to wrap up this hunt. Can't wait to get back home. We'll do something fun, I promise." 

"Sounds good," you replied, but the words felt hollow. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will. I always do. I love you, sweetheart." 

You heard a faint sound of chatter, and then Jack's voice chimed in, "Hey, I love you too!"

Your smile widened as you responded, "Love you both, too!"

After you hung up, you closed your eyes, surrendering to the fatigue that weighed heavily on you.

--------

Communication between you and Dean had always been a source of strength, but the waning enthusiasm in your voice concerned him and gnawed at him. 

He sat on the edge of the motel bed and couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Dean frowned. He knew how to read you like a book. ‘Busy’ was your way of saying you were overwhelmed; he could sense the weight behind those words. He didn’t think it was just the usual stress of your job—it was deeper, darker like a cloud hovering over you. 

Sam observed his restless brother, noticing how Dean's fingers tapped anxiously on the leg. 

"Go to her, Dean," Sam advised softly, his eyes reflecting understanding. "We'll take care of everything here."

Dean hesitated, glancing at Sam, who was perched comfortably at the table, absorbed in his research. 

"You sure about this?" Dean questioned.

"We've got this covered," Sam affirmed, projecting confidence. 

Cas, Jack, and Eileen joined in with subtle nods, their collective solidarity a silent promise of support.

-----------------

As you finished your shift at the senior home, tending to one of the residents, Mrs. Flores, you noticed the rustle of a delivery person approaching the nurses' station. The familiar scent of flowers wafted through the air, and your heart raced excitedly. It was that time again—Dean's way of sending his love your way, telling you that he would be home in exactly two weeks. 

The delivery person handed you a beautifully arranged bouquet of vibrant sunflowers and tulips, their golden petals radiating warmth. You carefully took the flowers, your breath hitching slightly at the sight. Then, with anticipation, you spotted the small card nestled among the stems. 

"Hey, gorgeous. Just wanted you to know I'll be on my way home soon. Can't wait to wrap my arms around you and show you how much I love you. You’re a beacon of light in my life, and I hope these brightened your day as much as you brightened mine. I'm so damn proud of you. See you soon. - Dean.

You couldn't help but smile widely, your heart fluttering at the words. Mrs. Flores, who had been observing you closely, chuckled softly. 

"That man has a way of making your heart sing, doesn't he?" Mrs. Flores said wistfully, her gaze distant. 

“You have no idea," you replied softly, pondering how lucky you felt to have Dean in your life, even with the chaos that often surrounded you both.

You took a moment to breathe in their sweet fragrance. Dean always seemed to know just what you needed— love, woven through the chaos of your lives, was a constant source of strength. 

You turned your attention back to Mrs. Flores, who was already gathering her knitting supplies.

 "So, what do you think?" you asked, a playful glimmer in your eye. "Can I pull off shamefully gushing about my fiancé while we finish these clinics?"

Mrs. Flores grinned knowingly. "Oh, honey, you go right ahead. A little love story in a room full of memories is exactly what we need!" 

Mr. Thompson had wheeled himself to get a close look at the flowers. "Well, don't you look like you've been kissed by the sun, dear! Who's the lucky guy?" He asked.

You turned, your smile even wider. “That would be my fiancé, Dean. He’s away for work right now, but this is his way of letting me know he's thinking of me."

"That's a lovely gesture! You keep that glow; it makes my day brighter just seeing you happy," Mr. Thompson replied, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

Your work device vibrated with a message from the doctor: "Ms. Loveday requests your presence for one final meeting." 

As you strolled through the serene corridors of the hospice, reminiscences of previous encounters with Ms. Loveday inundated your thoughts. The soothing, rhythmic melody of the piano keys resounded in your mind—the way Ms. Loveday's smile would gently emerge, her eyes glimmering with memories as she recounted tales of her youth and the magnificent concerts she once graced with her presence.

There she was, lying peacefully in bed, surrounded by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the window. The room held a stillness that contrasted sharply with the anxious flutter in your heart. 

You approached her, noting her labored breaths and the slightest tremors of her body. You took her hand in hers, squeezing gently, wishing her comfort.

Ms. Loveday's face softened with warmth, her eyes twinkling with affection as she summoned all her strength to speak in a gentle, trembling voice, "What a good man. Those flowers are lovely, dear. They remind me of sunshine after a storm." 

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. The reality of her impending goodbye was suffocating.

"Dear," Ms. Loveday said softly, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying the warmth of a thousand shared moments. "Life is a melody, and like any good piece of music, it has its crescendos and diminuendos. Remember to embrace the highs and get through the lows together."

"Ms. Loveday, I—"

"Let me finish," the elderly woman interrupted with a gentle smile, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "you have a good heart. Don't let it harden with the burdens of this world. Promise me you'll live fully. Dance if you must, laugh often, and never let doubt overshadow your love."

You couldn't help but smile through your sorrow. "I promise," you finally replied, your voice trembling. "I'll hold on to your words and cherish every moment."

"Good," Ms. Loveday said, her voice growing fainter. She closed her eyes, a peaceful smile still resting on her lips."Thank you for being my audience, y/n. I think my final encore is about to begin."

Ms. Loveday's trembling grasp finally loosened, and as her hand fell away, the once-vigorous monitor that had been beeping with life fell into an eerie silence. Your emotional dam collapsed as you finally opened the floodgates, your tears flowing freely. In that poignant moment of grief, you found yourself consumed by a deep yearning for Dean, wishing for his unwavering strength to envelop you, to remind you that you were a team—each other's support, no matter the distance or the danger he faced. 

-------

Dean's heart pounded with concern as he stepped out of your workplace. He had traveled a long way, eagerly looking forward to surprising you, only to be met with your absence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't add up. The receptionist's words lingered in his mind: "She'll be off for the next few days." 

This conflicted with the excuse you gave him just a few hours ago about picking up extra shifts and being unable to communicate as much. His sense of unease grew as he pondered the inconsistencies in your story. Leaning against the sleek Impala, he felt the cool metal against his back as he fought to calm his racing thoughts, determined not to succumb to the impulse to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

His foot pressed hard on the accelerator as he sped towards the bunker, a surge of relief washing over him when he glimpsed your car parked outside. With anticipation and trepidation, he stepped inside the bunker, enveloped in an eerie silence, save for the buzzing of the lights. 

Dean made his way to your bedroom and heard the shower's distant sound. Knowing you were home brought him instant relief. 

Dean waited anxiously for you as you lingered in the shower. Usually, he'd enthusiastically join you, but this time, he wanted to approach you differently. 

Fidgeting nervously, he tapped his fingers on his lap. Finally, he heard the water cease, and after a few moments, your silhouette casted a soft glow in the room. You emerged from the shower, oblivious to Dean's presence as he sat back on a chair. You were adorned in a delicate silk chemise, the delicate fabric gracefully draping over her figure. Seeing you caused Dean's heart to swell with emotion. 

“Sleeping early now, are we?" Dean remarked, causing you to stop in your tracks, completely bewildered by his unexpected presence. 

"Dean," you uttered, "I-- I thought you'd be here in two weeks."

Dean's relaxed demeanor tightened as he replied, "Yeah, well, that was before I found out my soon-to-be wife was going through hell alone." His attempt at lightness couldn't mask the underlying concern. "Come on, sweetheart, I know you well." 

You averted your gaze, not wanting Dean to see your swollen eyes from hours of crying.

"I'm fine," you said with a forced smile. "Where's everyone?" you asked, shifting the focus. 

 "Okay, so we're going to have a conversation through questions. I’ll indulge you." Dean settled back and observed you, still standing in the alcove, your expression hidden.

 "They're wrapping up the case, so it's just you and me in this bunker. Why did you say you were working extra shifts when you were taking days off?"

You winced at the question, your heart racing as you searched for the most sensible lie. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you—intense and unwavering.

 "I'm just... very sleep-deprived, and I intended to sleep a lot these next few days." There was a moment of silence. "That must have been a long drive... Did you stop by some place to get yourself anything to eat?" 

Dean knew that was a lie, but he wouldn't press it. 

“No, I wanted to get here as fast as possible," he said before pausing and continuing, "Look, I get it. Sometimes, we all need a break. But why the cover-up?" His voice was steady, but an undertone of worry was simmering beneath the surface.

You bit your lip, the weight of his gaze making your chest tighten.

"It was wrong of me, Dean. I’m sorry,” you said, hoping that was enough for him to avoid attempting to discover your weakness. “I’ll be back. I'm going to fix you dinner."

But Dean's worry only intensified, brewing a storm within him. He had faced countless monsters and supernatural foes, yet here he was, feeling powerless against the unseen burdens that tormented you.

He stood up, his instincts kicking in. His concern was knife-edged, a gut feeling that something was really wrong. He grasped your wrist with swift decisiveness, his voice taking on a steely resolve. 

“We're not finished," he stated firmly, his grip gentle yet insistent.

You averted your gaze, a fleeting vulnerability flashing in your eyes as your carefully constructed defenses were seconds from crumbling. 

He reached for your hands, holding them firmly in his own. 

“Look at me, baby” he urged gently. 

"I didn't want to worry you," you confessed, your voice soft and tinged with regret, but you still avoided his gaze. 

“Worry me?” Dean let out a short laugh. “you’re doing it right now, babe. Look, you’re my world. I’d rather know you're struggling than think everything’s fine when it’s not.”

More silence.

"Sweetheart," Dean uttered gently, "I know this is hard for you to talk about, but you need to talk to me." His thumb brushed just below your chin to lift your gaze toward his. Your eyes were red, and your face was blotchy as you inhaled shakily. Dean's heart shattered at the sight.

That was the final push. The facade pulverized. Tears spilled down your cheeks, and he reached for you, pulling you into his arms as more tears flowed. He tucked your head under his chin, wrapping his arms around you tightly as if he could shield you from any lingering pain and grounding you in the comfort of his presence. 

“I just feel so helpless sometimes,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like every loss weighs down on me. And then I come home, and it’s like I can’t escape those moments. They follow me, haunting me… and I see you, and all I can think about is losing you too.”

Dean’s heart ached at your words. He wished he could take away your pain and fight off those ghosts that plagued your mind. 

“You’re not going to lose me, y/n. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed, his voice steady and firm. 

You took a deep breath, the weight of your confession lifting slightly.  “It just hurts so much,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to bring that darkness into our life together.”

Dean's voice carried a tinge of sadness as he spoke, "This has been weighing on you for months, and you've been keeping it to yourself..."

His grip on you tightened as if he could absorb your pain through the closeness. He knew that being a nurse wasn’t just a job for you; it was an emotional battlefield that often took its toll on your heart and soul.

Dean let go to look into your eyes, a deep intensity and vulnerability reflected back at him. The weight of your pain was palpable, a burden you carried alone, and his heart ached for you. 

“We’re in this together, alright? Your pain, your joy—it’s all part of us now. And I’d take all the broken pieces if it meant keeping you whole," he murmured, his voice filled with compassion and unwavering devotion. “Let me be there for you. I’d take every scar, every sleepless night, just to keep a part of you with me. Because every moment we have together—every laugh, every fight, every kiss—it's worth everything to me.”

Your breath hitched and your heart raced as you locked eyes with him, desperately seeking any flicker of doubt in his unwavering gaze. Instead, you found an intensity of devotion that seemed to pierce into the depths of your soul.

Dean felt a natural, instinctive love for you, as effortless as drawing breath, as vital as his ongoing battle against the surrounding darkness.

“Dean, you can’t just—”

“I can,” he interrupted softly, his grip on your hands tightening. “I want to. You’ve been through so much, and I can’t stand to see you suffer alone. I’ll shoulder whatever you need me to. I want to be part of your healing, just like you’ve been a part of my redemption,” he confessed with profound sincerity.

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and for a moment, you felt the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. 

“But what if it breaks you?" you whispered, vulnerability spilling from your lips.

"Then I’ll mend myself," he replied with a fierce intensity. "I promise you, I’d rather be broken alongside you than whole without you."

He pressed a kiss on your forehead, warmth flooding between you two. 

“I’ve dealt with a lot of things in my life—hell, monsters, heartbreak, loss. But I’d fight a hundred more battles if it meant I could protect you from feeling even one more ounce of pain."

As Dean pulled you into his arms, you felt a sense of safety that promised you two would face whatever came next, hand in hand, pain and all. 

Dean’s fingers traced gentle patterns on your back as you nestled your face into the crook of his neck. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with his scent of leather, musk, and faint traces of campfire smoke that clung to him. Your warm exhale caressed his skin, and he could feel the subtle curve of your smile against him. He thought you were so beautiful, fitting in his arms perfectly and his heart so completely. 

“My sweet, beautiful, sensitive girl,” Dean whispered, the words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing the storm inside you.

Dean held you tighter, pressing soft kisses into your hair, breathing in the comforting scent of your shampoo—the smell of home. 

Then Dean let go momentarily to look at you.

"Don't hide from me again, baby." He implored with firm conviction in his voice.

"I promise," you vowed sincerely.

The worry etched on your face disappeared as you made eye contact, and despite the exhaustion in his bones, Dean couldn't help but smile.

“God, I missed you,” he said earnestly. 

Dean delicately swept a stray strand of hair behind your ear, sending a shiver down your spine at the sensation of his touch.

Then, without another moment's hesitation, Dean wrapped you in his arms again, pulling you close as your lips met in a tender, yearning kiss. It was sweet and soft, a culmination of longing that had built up over the past month. You melted into him, feeling the familiar warmth of his embrace—how he held you as if you were his entire world. The kiss deepened, filled with an abundance of emotions—relief, love, and a touch of the bittersweet ache of all the days spent apart. 

Dean grinned as you pulled apart. "Now, why don't I order us some takeout? We can binge-watch something terrible together. I'm pretty sure you've missed my awful taste in TV."

You let out a chuckle and nodded. “I’d like that.”

[nadiajustbe]

I know people in HMC books speak English so there's not gonna be any kind of miscommunication between the characters, but sometimes I think about how it would be way more funny If there was some language diversity.

Howell Jenkins falls into the portal to an absolutely unknown, magical realm and... everyone speaks English. He was rather happy about it, finding it funny: it's a new, fantasy, fairy-tale based world with dragons and spells and seven-league boots and magic, and yet its habitants English. What are the odds?

However, it does not takes him long to realise (much to his own frustration) that, even though all of the locals native language is, in fact, English, it is pretty different from the English Howell himself is familiar with. He cant understand it quite well at fist, but it sounded like an odd mix of a modern language, specific dialects and an old tongue people was using around Victorian England/Middle Ages. It has so many words and unusual forms (Howell even called them "slang" once in a while), that it takes him a while to fully get every term and subtexts ms. Pentstemmon was referring to.

Their languages were similar just enough to catch the full sense of the sentence, but not enough to undertand all the little details, not cultural nor linguistic. It would even worst If he wasn't a big fun of Shakespeare and old Arthurian Legends growing up, letting alone studying old English (and old Welsh) at the university.

The language also differs from the area. Michael, for example, uses so many words you can hear in Porthaven only, regarding it's unique aspects. Sophie uses a lot of Market Chipping proverbs, and even more old terms connected with hats. The language he heard the King using wheh he got his first chance to met him at the time of his apprenticeship was so long, confusing and vivid, as If it was taken straight out of old English Literature books. And yet, English.

To this day Howell — at this point long-knowing as Howl Pendragon — finds himself confusing new terms, forms of words, proverbs and sayings. Maybe, he thinks, you have to be truly born there to understand all of - although he did better than anyone else would. Sophie seems to catching up just well.

—

Abdullah ends up with a flying carpet and the magical genie, exited to give away his fist wish to find the love of his love... only to not understand a word of what the genie is saying. This is how, instead of searching for Flower-In-The-Night, he now searching through a whole Zanzib for a proper translator from English because, here's the problem, If he can't understand the genie, then genie can't understand him, and If genie can't understand him, it's pointless to even try making a wish. He knows it's English: there's plenty people all around the world visiting the market, and he had even learnt certain words, important for making a trade, but that's not nearly close to a full sentence on unrelated topic.

With a great effort and after hours of searching for a really proffecional master of languages (who charges Abdullah nearly all of his money for one single session), he finally gets to the point. Except, here's another moment. That's where Abdullah finds out the wish has to be spoken from his heart and not through the other person. Here comes another catch — Ingarian English, no matter how simple or structured is, to put is simply, badly different from Rapshutian Arabic. It's not even the same language group!

So, he sits in the small, hot room near the glamorous bottle and tries to pronounce a bunch of difficult, complex words written on a paper, the kind that translator couldn't cut or simplify to ones he's familiar with, for a whole ten (to fifteen) minutes. And, as If trying to make his task as difficult as possible, genie, when he shows up, starts randomly breaking into the language translator can't even recognise, with no talk about understanding. Abdullah assumes it may be a secret genie language only this creatures know and, annoyingly, gets along with it.

After successfully wishing to understand (and use) English, he also finds out he can't wish for anything more language-related, and he shouldn't even bother himself trying to ask for a foolish things like an ability to speak every language in the world. Language is a big part of human's essence and otherwise shouldn't be messing with, just as magic focusing on it is strictly limited.

Using this fact, the genie also finds a loophole - from now on he speaks his secret genie language half of the time, stopping only when it comes to important tasks, because Abdullah "wished to know only one of his languages" and he, apparently, knows more.

This whole puzzle takes new turns, when, while traveling with the carpet, Abdullah meets the solider. Despite claiming being from Strangia, this strange man from the forest starts speaking with them in English in first and then, noticing they're from different country, easily switches to Arabic.

As they wander together, the soliders explains that he is non less confused than they are: he didn't even noticed he could speak English before the passer-byes from Ingary noticed him, and now, being with genie and Abdullah, he also remembered he knows Arabic. He adds that he can't recall anything before his duty in the army, where he definitely used Stangian and nothing else, but it feels like an strong knowledge he has, even If he doesn't remember learning any of this. He decides to wave it off, focusing on the cats and schemes.

The solider becomes a great translator for them along the journey, up to the day the got the inn. He does not understand the secret genie language, though. Especially when from the jinnies and angels they found out there's, in fact, no such a thing as a "genie language"

The story finally clears itself when Midnight and Whippersnapper turn into humans, the Solider turns into a bewitched Prince and the Royal Wizard surprisingly seems to recognize all of the words the genie was — and still is — using.

—

Charmain runs after Sophie with a long, old dictionary she has found in the Great Uncle Norland's Library. The Royals, of course, gave their honored guest the translator, but the things quickly becomes pretty private, with the search for the gold and all this story with lubboks, so Sophie tells them she's gonna manage it by herself.

To say the Dictionary is heavy is to say nothing: it's huge and thick, containing thousands of words from Ingarian English alone, split by topics, marked with tons of colors an additional moments. Even carrying it around is a whole different type of task.

Half of the time Charmain and Sophie communicate with gestures, context clues and even sounds. When they need to say something really long and complex, they write, leaning on the Dictionary, as it's a bit faster than talking. Still, at some moments Charmain has to flip through the massive pages, searching for the right word with her finger, while Sophie has to do the same. Till the end of the day the both learn some basic words from each other's language, which makes it easier.

The poor nanny has even harder times with Twinkle and Morgan, because she has no idea about what they actually want, except they both whining and crying, one louder than another.

Translator does not come in handy that much, as it looks like these children mix languages everytime when speaking to each other. She has to guess things all over the room to finally get what they need, and usually it's the most useless things ever, like striped pants and a bunch of toy horses falling from the sky.

They see Sophie and Twinkle arguing about something, but no one gets the topic of their screaming, let alone the reason why Sophie is so mad at this angelic child. Charmain asks Sophie about it, because she heard an unusual name along the lines of their quarrels, but Sophie looks too annoyed to explain, mumbling something in her native language with some sort of anger.

The only positive side of it all is that, If Chairman can't understand English, then the lubbocks can't either. Wich means that they didn't have to be as cautious when using Dictionary as they would have to If they understood each other perfectly.

Then she has to climb on the roof, where Twinkle is sitting. Charmain tries to dismiss all his attempts to start a dialogue till she's there, huffing and suffocating as she tries to get the Dictionary with her, trying not to fall.

Twinkle seems to be really proud of himself, saying he knows twice more languages that anyone else in this magical House. Charmain flips through the pages, asking either one of is the one she knows (Norlandian, I assume).

Twinkle says no. For a second Charmaine starts to really understand Sophie's feeling, fighting the urge to hit him on the head with this massive book.

Peter does not communicate with this new guest as much and, luckily, he knows the language Charmain speaks, so they don't have to struggle with a language barrier. The way speaks might be a bit different because of the area he grew up and the amount of hiding and spells he encountered, but there's nothing they can't handle. Luckily.

Calcifer knows the Saucepan song, but other than that his linguistic knowledge is far from perfect, certainly not as good as you'd expect from a fire demon. He also cannot use a Dictionary, because it will burn the second he'll come to close to it, and If this happens their main way of communication is basically gone. He makes up for it, talking with Twinkle, Morgan and Sophie, as well as being expressive enough to understand the basics or what he feels and plans. Sometimes someone (aka Sophie) has to translate what he is saying when she's near, wich is a bit longer than Charmain would wish, but still pretty plausible. She got that he desperately needs his logs, after all.

Twinkle could have used some kind of magical bubble to get them finally understand each other fully, but, again, magic connected with languages is pretty difficult and has its important limits, so it wouldn't last long. Little 30 years old boy is enjoying his childhood, running up the stairs and beating these huge bugs, not as much caring about Charmain all this huge book in her hands.

In the end, (as he turnds out to be) the Royal Wizard Howl is right - the only languages lubbocks can understand is punching.

(Many thanks to my rly good friend @your-queen-shuri for being co-author of this concept. A bunch of ideas here are from her!)

[theholmwoodfoundation]

DOCUMENT HF-63-2503 23rd November 1963

To [REDACTED] I am writing this report as a follow up of our meeting this morning, as I believe the magnitude of this week’s events will require proper documentation and filing once complete. As previously stated, our deployment in Northern France began in September, following several police reports of hikers going missing in dense woodland close to the town of [REDACTED]. Following the 1959 acquisition of Asset #4, we have implemented a protocol to investigate any missing person’s case above a bodycount of four individuals within an area of wilderness.  An Extraction Team was dispatched to the location in early October, under the guise of a university research team from Paris.  Extraction Team Leader Castle was tasked with setting up a perimeter, and local law enforcement were engaged to keep civilians away from the area. Following an intense investigation of the woodland in question, the team were able to uncover the asset’s hiding place. According to photographs of the site, she had sequestered herself inside the ruins of an abandoned church. I already have our Archival team working to assess whether this site was deconsecrated at any point in time, or whether this puts into question our current beliefs regarding vampirism and what is deemed “holy” iconography.  Asset was covered in blood when the Extraction team found her. It appears she had acquired a sixth victim on the night of our arrival. Said victim was not dead, and had not been forced to drink her blood. They have been placed under close medical supervision, and will be transferred to our medical centre in Amsterdam for examination. We believe they will require nothing more than the typical NDA and debriefing once physically recovered. The asset has been successfully restrained by the Extraction Team, and I have begun the paperwork for her transportation to Whitby. Due to her sentient state, we suspect she will require additional holding measures within the archives.  Archivist Jenkins has assured us that she has begun preparations, but I wish to stress the importance of this acquisition. This Extraction may be exactly the breakthrough we’ve been looking for in our research of the Undead.  We cannot let this opportunity pass us by.  Yours,  [REDACTED]

Acquisition Letter transcribed for the Whitby Archives

[theother456-stories]

“Closing Shift”

Elliot stared at the clipboard his boss, Mr. Jenkins, had handed him. His eyes scanned the long list of items marked “overstocked.” Rows of bread loaves, crates of vegetables, stacks of meat patties, and mountains of cheese blocks—all crammed into the kitchen’s already packed walk-in fridge.

“I need you to take care of this tonight, Elliot,” Mr. Jenkins said, patting him on the back. “Can’t afford to let all this go to waste. Figure it out, and don’t forget to lock up.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Elliot replied, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. He’d only been working at the diner for a month. It was supposed to be a simple job—a way to make some cash while finishing his degree. But now, staring at the overflowing fridge, he felt overwhelmed. How could one guy manage all this?

The restaurant closed at 10 PM. By then, the kitchen was empty, and the place had a lonely hum as the neon lights flickered above the counter. Elliot walked back to the kitchen, the overwhelming smell of fresh bread and sizzling meat still lingering. He opened the fridge, the cold air blasting his face, and sighed.

The stacks of food stared back at him, a reminder of the impossible task. His stomach growled. It was late, and he hadn’t had dinner. Maybe if he sampled a few things, it’d help clear his mind. The temptation was too strong to resist.

He grabbed a burger patty and tossed it on the grill, watching it sizzle as the aroma filled the air. Before he knew it, he had added a slice of cheese, a bun, and a mountain of fries. He bit into it, the flavors exploding in his mouth. One bite became two, then three, until the whole burger was gone.

“Okay, just one more,” he muttered to himself, trying to justify it. There was so much food, and no one would notice if he took a bit more.

As he ate, he wandered through the kitchen, trying to figure out how to tackle the stock problem. That’s when he noticed the scale in the corner—a large, industrial one they used for weighing bulk deliveries. It had been moved there temporarily because of a recent delivery mistake that overloaded their storage shelves. Elliot had used it earlier that day to verify weights on incoming shipments, making sure they matched the invoices.

The thought crossed his mind briefly: This is way more food than we can store, even after tonight’s shipment. Maybe I could… But he brushed it off, telling himself he’d focus on eating just enough to clear his head.

The second burger went down faster than the first. Then a third. Elliot felt an energy surge through him, like a rush he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t just eating—he was devouring. The smell, the taste, the way it filled the emptiness in his stomach—all of it was intoxicating.

Before he knew it, he was reaching for the mashed potatoes, pies, and fried chicken. He hadn’t planned to eat everything; it just happened, one plate after another. He’d move on to the next thing before he even realized he had finished the last. His hands moved on their own, and as the food disappeared, his belly began to expand.

His thin frame swelled, his uniform tightening as his belly pressed against the fabric. He didn’t notice the seams stretching as he dug into yet another tray of food. The clock ticked past midnight, but he was lost in the indulgence. Plates piled up around him, and his belly, once flat and lean, bulged outwards, wobbling as he reached for the next plate.

By 2 AM, he was leaning back against the counter, feeling the weight of his own body more than ever. He glanced down, seeing how his belly had pushed out far beyond what he thought possible. His shirt buttons had popped off one by one, and his pants split down the sides, leaving his swollen middle exposed.

He felt a brief moment of panic. What have I done? The thought barely settled in before he glanced at the scale. It was right there. He hesitated, his face flushed, then gave in to curiosity. He needed to know. Awkwardly, he rolled himself onto the platform, feeling the cold metal beneath his feet.

When he looked down, the digital screen flashed a number that made his eyes widen: 1,200 pounds.

Elliot stared, both fascinated and stunned at the sight of himself. His belly hung in front of him like a swollen beach ball, nearly touching the floor. His arms were thick and heavy, his thighs were wide enough to strain against his stretched-out pants, and his cheeks were puffed out, giving his face a round, jolly look.

The next morning, the jingling of keys echoed in the front of the diner. Mr. Jenkins walked in, his usual grumpy demeanor softened by the early hour. As he turned the corner into the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks.

Elliot, now a massive figure weighing in at over half a ton, sat slumped against the counter, his enormous belly sprawled across his lap and nearly touching the floor. The fabric of his uniform hung in tatters, and his cheeks were flushed with a mix of embarrassment and fullness.

“Elliot… what in the world happened here?” Mr. Jenkins asked, his eyes wide as he took in the sight.

Elliot gave a sheepish grin, rubbing the vast expanse of his bloated stomach. “Uh, well… I figured I’d take care of the stock the best way I knew how.”

Mr. Jenkins stared for a moment, then, surprisingly, laughed. “Well, you sure did that, kid. We’ll need to work on a new solution, though—one that doesn’t involve eating the entire kitchen.”

Elliot chuckled, feeling a strange sense of pride mixed with his embarrassment. “Guess I got carried away.”

Mr. Jenkins shook his head, still laughing. “Guess so. Now let’s see if we can find a forklift to get you out of here.”

[dreamingwithmyadhd]

Dark Eyes (Howl Jenkins-Pendragon x Dark Eyed reader)

Howl casually strolled the streets of the town he was in that he could not recall the name of for the sake of his life. He thought to himself that quite frankly if he were to be asked, he would simply ignore the request and stroll along.

Now, he was known as a womanizer in almost every town except for the few he blackened his name in, telling poor villagers or citizens that he stole and ate the hearts of those he deemed beautiful. It struck fear in the over-pompous and gave relief to those who lacked the confidence to believe they were beautiful. He would eat his own heart if he hadn't given it to Calcifer.

Howl was jolted from his thoughts when a slight bump alerted him someone was near. It was you, rushing from the market to the dressmakers to the fabric makers, doing tasks on your day off to earn extra money.

Howl felt his nonexistent heart pang. While your features were somewhat unique for the area, your eyes struck Howl and made his leg buckle. They were a dark colour, a unique one to find in the town. streaks of light filtered through your errand hat and illuminated the colour of your eyes, making Howl's mouth water and his arms feel heavy.

Why were your eyes so captivating? Howl wondered as he wandered and you scampered off to continue your tasks. In a district that favored light features, your bold ones made him think of his own overly effeminate features, like his jewelry or his preference for flowey clothes. And who was he to deny that he looked good in high waisted pants?

You captivated his mind when he returned to his castle, you strangled his head with your features when he went to bed and you were his first thought in the morning. He didn't want to find you attractive. He didn't want to actually want to pursue you, maybe if he did you or he would lose interest before anything really happened. And yet he heard his fork clatter to the ground as he thought of what you might look in a nightgown, a dancing gown, maybe even wear his Rugby apparel and invite you to wear pants in his castle if you visited. As Howl overlooked his family in Wales through his bedroom window, He thought of his sister and how she had a husband and two children. He thought of Michael possibly getting along with you, and odd domestic thoughts filled his head. Heading into town again he prayed he would see your face again so he could take a better look at those eyes. Maybe in the sunlight of midday or maybe in the pinks and purples of dusk, or maybe he can admire the darkness of them as they become most bold against your white scleras during night.

[jilyawards]

Miss Evans and the impossible task (of finding a husband) by @annasghosts

Spitting Image by @charmstandtealeaves

it’s brighter now by @gigglesandfreckles-hp

in losing grip by @keep--driving

guilty as sin by ohevans

Quest for Camelot by @petalsthefish

The Loyal Companion: A Tale of Bad Dates and Good Whiskey by @sophie-hatter-jenkins

A House Is Not A Home (But He Can Build Her One) by @wearingaberetinparis

And You Heard About Me (Ooh, We’ve Got Some Big Enemies!) by wearingaberetinparis

…Are You Ready For It (Baby, Let the Games Begin) by wearingaberetinparis

Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton by wearingaberetinparis

Till Death Do Us Part (Let It Be Quick) by wearingaberetinparis

[msrpusher]

The Obsidian Echo

Chapter 6- Deadline

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66191032/chapters/171208654

The air in the temporary task force command center, a repurposed conference room in the local police station, was heavy with the stale scent of coffee and the sharper tang of exhaustion. Every agent and officer looked worn thin, their eyes dulled by another report, another dead girl.

Mulder stood at the front of the room, his ugly plaid tie askew and dark shadows under his eyes. He looked like hell, but he was razor sharp, anchored by adrenaline and obsession. This was where he thrived, in the dark core of terrible truths.

"We have identified a fifth victim," he began, his voice low and precise. "Marilyn Garcia. Twenty-eight years old. Speech pathologist. Newly married. Her body washed up just north of town this morning. Same markers. Same ritual. No message. No note. Just silence."

He turned to the whiteboard behind him, where the victims' names and forensic details formed a grim mosaic.

Lisa Harrison, 25, freelance artist. Found three weeks ago. Angela Chen, 32, marine biologist. Found two weeks ago. Sarah Jenkins, 20, college student. Found earlier this week. Carmine Lovelett, 17, runaway. Found yesterday. Now believed to be the first. Marilyn Garcia, 28, speech pathologist. Found this morning.

"We are dealing with an evolving offender," Mulder continued, his voice rough but steady. "Carmine was the first. The others were more polished, more deliberate. He is getting better."

Mulder's finger rested on Carmine's report.

"She had defensive wounds. Her body was dragged after death. The weapon was crude. It was a mess. But then it changed. The killer replaced the crude blade with obsidian. He started using burlap to wrap the victims. He learned how to submerge them in freshwater and move the bodies later to the ocean. It is not cleanup. It is design."

He looked out at the room, eyes hard.

"This is not rage. This is method. He is perfecting something. These killings are ritual acts, each more calculated than the last. They are not crimes of passion. They are rehearsals. This is someone who feels powerless in the world, and he kills to assert control over it. Each murder is an attempt to master what terrifies him."

Mulder stepped closer to the whiteboard and circled a line of text.

"The timing matters. Each victim was taken on the second day of her cycle. It is not coincidence. In certain belief systems, that day is seen as the peak of feminine power. Biologically and symbolically, it is a moment of raw potential. Creation. Fertility. The possibility of life."

He paused.

"But to someone filled with shame and self-hatred, it is the most threatening moment imaginable. I believe this man was deeply wounded by his mother. A woman who made her femininity into a weapon. She likely blamed him for being born. Humiliated him for what he was. And he has never escaped that shame."

Mulder's voice softened but lost none of its precision.

"These women are not random to him. They are reflections. Stand-ins. Every one of them is her. And each one contains the potential to create someone like him. That is what he is trying to erase. He is not just killing them. He is killing what they represent. What he fears he still is."

The room was silent. Even the hum of the overhead lights seemed to recede.

"There is one more detail," Mulder said. "One that confirms the pattern."

He drew a line connecting the victims to a broader profile.

"Our suspect is in a relationship. Possibly married. His partner is much younger. Likely less educated. Financially and emotionally dependent on him. She is not his equal. She is his shelter. And here is the critical part. She cannot have children."

A ripple moved through the room.

"That is not a footnote. It is central. She cannot create life. Which means she cannot betray him the way his mother did. In his eyes, she is safe. She is proof that he is in control. That he has finally rewritten the narrative. While she plays the role of devoted partner, he slips away at night to hunt the women who still represent a threat."

Mulder's gaze swept the room slowly.

"She does not suspect. Not really. She might feel something is wrong, but she will not confront it. Because he has built the entire relationship to shield him. To make him feel invincible." He stepped back and let the weight of it settle.

"This is not just pathology. It is permission. And until we shatter that illusion, he will keep going."

Diana Fowley stepped forward, tablet in hand. Her heels clicked softly against the tile.

"If Carmine was the first, then her location is our best lead," she said. "She was staying at a transitional shelter. They keep visitor logs."

She tapped the screen.

"One name comes up repeatedly. Walter Simms. Fifty-five. Former maintenance volunteer. Socially awkward. Reclusive. Severe acne scarring. He has a pronounced stutter. Lives alone near a defunct freshwater reservoir."

She looked up. "He fits."

Mulder stared at her, absorbing the detail.

"A stutter," he repeated quietly. "A speech pathologist was his last victim."

Diana nodded. "We think it is significant."

"It is," Mulder said, his tone shifting.

He turned back to the board.

"A stutter is not just a speech disorder. For someone like this, it is a symbol of everything he hates about himself. Especially when it happens in front of women. It makes him feel small. Weak. Powerless. Just like he did in front of his mother."

He glanced at Diana.

"And Garcia's profession? That is not incidental. He chose her because she represented correction. Healing. She was someone who might have seen the stutter as something to fix. But to him, it is sacred shame. He protects it with violence."

Mulder's face was unreadable now.

"She did not just trigger his insecurities. She threatened his mask. And he destroyed her for it."

"Let's go," he said suddenly. "Deputy, assemble a response team. Agent Fowley, with me."

____________________________________________________________

Minutes later, the Bureau SUV was cutting through the early morning haze. The trees thickened, the roads narrowed. Mulder pulled out his phone, calling Scully.

She picked up on the first ring. "Mulder?"

He exhaled. "We have a lead. A possible connection to Carmine. Walter Simms. Former shelter volunteer. Stutter. Acne scarring. Lives by a freshwater site. Fits the profile. Diana and I are en route."

"Simms?" she echoed, analytical. "That tracks with the freshwater diatoms, but Mulder, the scratches on Carmine’s fingertips. They were not random. They were upward. Like she was clawing at something above her. And there were fibers beneath her nails. Synthetic, uniform. Like netting. Or rope."

Mulder blinked, picturing it. "A net. Like on a boat."

"Exactly," she said. "Not just brute force. A mechanism. A controlled drowning. He is not overpowering them. He is submerging them. Holding them in place."

"And the obsidian," Mulder murmured, half to himself. "There is a reason he chose it. It is primitive. Ancient. Volcanic glass used in ritual. Sacrificial."

Scully’s voice softened, serious. "Mulder. He sees them as offerings. Not just victims. Each one a stand-in for whatever twisted debt he thinks he is paying."

He was silent for a moment. Then said, "He does not want these women to create life. Not because he fears it. But because he hates it. Because he wishes he had never been born. And killing them at the height of their fertility is his way of making sure no one ever creates someone like him."

Just then, Diana leaned over and without warning ended the call.

Mulder’s expression darkened. "What was that?"

"She is trying to derail this," Diana said tightly. "She always does. It is pathological."

Mulder yanked the SUV to the side of the road. Tires screeched.

He turned to her, slow and deliberate. "You compromised this case. And you compromised me."

"Fox"

"No," he cut in. "The folder. The one Scully brought last night. You buried it. You made it about your ego instead of the evidence."

Diana’s face flushed. "She was emotional..."

"She was right," he snapped. "And whatever we had, Diana, it is over. You are not my partner. Scully is. And from this moment forward, we keep this strictly professional."

The car roared back to life. They drove in silence.

Then, barely audible, Diana asked, "Fox, are you in love with her?"

____________________________________________________________

Back in the morgue, Scully stared at her phone, the dead silence a slap.

He hung up on her. Mulder, who always wanted her opinion, who lived for her insight, had ended the call. In front of Diana.

Her jaw clenched. A heat rose in her chest, equal parts hurt and fury.

But no. No spiral. Not now.

She turned back to Carmine’s file, her eyes scanning the data. What didn’t fit?

She laid out the files. The same obsidian cuts, the same disposal. But Carmine’s wounds were different. A struggle. A fight. Upward claw marks. Synthetic fibers.

"A net," she said aloud. "A trap."

She turned to the map. Freshwater reservoirs connected by narrow channels. And then, the ocean.

"He uses the boat like a weapon. Subdues them in freshwater. Drowns them. Then drags the body to the ocean for disposal. The burlap bags. Ritual. Burial."

She paused.

"This is not about anger. It is about erasure."

She cross-referenced boat records, fishing licenses. Then something pinged. A new suspect. Not Simms.

A marine biologist. Forty-nine. Severe acne scarring. Unmarried, but cohabitating with a much younger woman. She worked part-time at a women’s health clinic in town. Front desk. Records access. No formal medical training, but full administrative clearance. Enough to view intake forms, cycle data, even fertility notes.

Scully's eyes narrowed. That is how he was choosing them.

Not random. Not luck.

He had her pulling names.

And she never asked why.

And he had a boat.

Scully’s blood ran cold.

She dialed Mulder. No answer. Just voicemail.

Her hand tightened on the phone.

Time was of the essence before anyone else ended up dead.

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

new oc for my cod rp with @katslongwords

name:

Horatio “Rat” Jenkins

gender:

male

age:

31

hair color:

messy, a bit longer than regulations permit, dark brown

eye color:

pale yellow, almost whitish ( think herald!viktor from Arcane )

body type:

L A N K Y af, skinny limbs with a light layer of muscle, big hands and feet, fingers like a friggin vampire’s, thin features but relatively handsome in a kicked dog sort of way

race/ethnicity:

white

accent:

Dublin

height:

six foot three

weight:

roughly 140 pounds

background:

He joined up when he was 25 and having an early-onset existential crisis. He had spent four years bumbling his way through a Bachelor’s Degree in accounting and hated every moment of it. He struggled with chronic indecisiveness and procrastination, didn’t have a job or even an apartment and had no prospects to speak of. So he enlisted and it was the best decision he ever made. He flourished in the regular infantry before being promoted to the rank of Lieutenant ( which he still doesn’t think he deserves, and he’s pretty nervous about having a potential leadership role ) and transferred into the SAS. He now has a mostly desk job in Intel but goes into the field with different Task Forces when they need a technological specialist.

personality:

A bit socially awkward, doubts his own abilities constantly and thrives on reassurances and praise. He's got an iq of 135 and likes sci-fi stuff. Loves Halo but hates Star Wars. Kind, will latch onto people like a puppy and has no idea what the concept of personal space is.

[pricescigar]

Theodore Jenkins

Born: 18th January 1986

Age: 33 (As of MW2019)

Nationality: American

Gender: Male

Height: 191 cm (6'3")

Parent(s):  Jason Jenkins & Ellie Jenkins

Hair colour:  Dirty blonde

Eye colour:  Blue with tints of green

Nickname:  Theo _________________________________________

Personality: Sociable, whitty and snarky at times. Theodore knows how to get under people's skin to get a rise out of them, it's all fun and games to him. But there's always a time and a place to be serious, despite his harmless personality. Theodore knows how to fight well, and never let's anyone double cross him.

Likes: playing football, dogs, exploring, taking hikes, exercising, visiting his family in America

_________________________________________

Dislikes: Shadow comapny, general Shepherd

Backstory:

Growing up in Florida, Theodore was a bit of a troublemaker growing up,thanks to his two eldest brothers who were a bit of a pain in the arse as well. Jack was the oldest and Ben was the second youngest, and you had Theodore who was the youngest sibling. But their doings didn't go unpunished, growing up in a strict military household his father didn't hesitate to disipline any of them.

Out of both of his siblings he was the only one who ever wanted to join the army, which made his father proud of him.

He never really liked school that much growing up, he tried to find any kind of excuse as to avoid going. Which didn't go down too well with his parents, in any case he was a bit of a trouble maker during his school years as well;

Always getting into trouble, teasing people, hanging out with the wrong crowd, easily getting influenced by others. Due to how tall he was and his physic, he was obviously the perfect match for the schools football team, which reluctantly he accepted.

It didn't take him too long for him to start loving the sport, he loved the attention he got whenever the school did well during matches and won trophies. It was only when the last two years of school came around is when he took it seriously.

Just about graduating with average school grades, he decided to join the army at the age of 18 in 2004.

During his time in boot camp he had his moments where he wanted to give up and quit, but he didn't give up. Once he was fully trained he became a good solider.

He's been neatened, captured, interrogated for six months after one mission that went went wrong but he never yield. He held on as much as he could before his team managed to find him and rescue him.

Theodore is also good friends with Alex Keller who is also known as Echo 3-1, the two are good ol' buddies.

In 2018 he was approached by Phillip Graves a few times to join Shadow Company which he has politely declined a few times.

Over the years of him being in the army he built a name for himself before in 2019 Kate Laswell called in Theodore. Offering to help Captain Price and Kyle "Gaz" Garrick.

Accepting the offer he helped them assist Farah Karim to eliminate General Barkov, after the events. He finally found his calling and joined the Task Force, accepting Captain Price's offer to be on the team.

In 2022 Theodore assisted Alejandro, Rodolfo, Ghost and Soap during their time in Las Almas & taking down Commander Phillip Graves.